


John Wick 4: David and Goliath

by Fault



Category: John Wick - Fandom
Genre: Gen, High Table, Improvised weapons, Sling shot, crossbows
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 01:56:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20350462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fault/pseuds/Fault
Summary: It has been some time since the events of John Wick 3. Time enough to heal, although it must be said that when injuries are great, scars are permanent.





	1. Chapter 1

When you look at New York from afar, it looks prosperous. Gleaming buildings of glass and steel. Traffic and pedestrians bustle. On the surface, it looks beautiful. Look closer though, and the sidewalks are filthy. Construction is done by scab labour. And people live in alley ways. There are rats. There are cockroaches. And there are even more unkillable creatures that lurk in the shadows.


	2. Chapter 2

New York. Day time. The Continental. 

Our familiar Adjudicator exits the front door, obviously dissatisfied.

"The simple finality of the situation is, that your failure to ascertain the fate and/or whereabouts of John Wick is unacceptable, especially given a time frame of more than two years.

"Come now.. " Winston says. "He has not surfaced either. I have handled this both discreetly and thoroughly."

"And yet the number of active service members who have disappeared without trace remains well above statistical average. The only reasonable conclusion is to believe this is the Baba Yaga working from the shadows. Do not try to bluster me."

Winston continues trying to placate the Adjudicator, delaying them upon the steps, out in the open. A mistake.

The Bowery King crouches on a roof-top some distance away from the Continental, peering through a pair of binoculars. The Adjudicator stands upon the steps of the Continental.

"Betty Botter bought a bit of bitter butter." He says cryptically, followed by a stern order "Ready the payload."

That is when Winston and the Adjudicator's conversation is interrupted by possibly the most fetid rain of refuse in human history.

The stench is truly sinus-blowingly horrific. It's a simple recipe blended rotten butter, rotten eggs, and decomposing pissed-soaked rats, all thinned to a splatteringly liquid consistency with a mixture of turpentine and acetone. Both disgusting and searing to the lungs, once you pack it into discarded glass bottles the stench loses it's power, but does not leave entirely. This is what coats the entire frontage of the Continental, and splatters upon our arguing antagonists.

Did you know that if you have two heavy friends who have a good grip on physics, you can make quite an effective sling-shot out of a tarpaulin, a few planks of wood, some duct tape and a bunch of elastic ropes? Well, you can. If you have twenty heavy friends, you can unload a lot of stench fluid, very quickly. The Bowery may be short on guns, but it is not short on creativity.

One other advantage of this foul brew is that it has a friction co-efficiency close to that of a banana peel. Making it difficult to duck for cover, or race to anyone's rescue with any sort of speed of accuracy. 

Winston and the Adjudicator are completely broadsided. Those inside the door react instantly, but it's still too late.

Did you know that you can make effective Bolas out of discarded sneakers, road gravel, socks and packing twine? While the rest of the assassins are slipping over while diving for cover, and wretching while they do it, the Adjudicator is thoroughly wrapped, and tugged down the stairs with alacrity.

Because, another advantage of this concoction is it's excellent flammability.

Ten seconds after the launch of the stench fluid, the 40 gallon drum full of burning coals arrives, and bursts open against the stairway. The power of the stench lessens as it ignites, but the distraction increases exponentially, as everyone within twenty metres is now coated in a stinking BURNing goo. It's during this flare and conflagration that the destination of the abducted Adjudicator becomes obscured.

This is how one kidnaps an Adjudicator without trace. When we say that the Bowery fights dirty, we are not kidding around.

...

A short time later a shopping trolley gets wheeled to the base of a decrepit building facing a narrow alley. The tarpaulin is torn off the top in a single motion.

The Bowery King laughs and claps his hands together in delight. “Your problem, Adjudicator, is that you forgot that our world is composed of humans.”

“When the system cares more for the maintenance of hierarchy and order more than it cares for the human dignity of those who serve it, then the system will fall by the same type of brutality that it stands by.”

“That, is how we come to be in this situation. The Assassin's World will treat your loss as no more than the loss of a gun, or a stapler. You are no more than a tool, and your worth is measured by your compliance, and your usefulness.”

"You, are now a lost asset. But to us? This is the morale boost we have been hoping for, for some long time." The

The Adjudicator opens their mouth to spit a cold retort. Instead they get a better gag.

The Bowery King laughs. "See you later, Adjudicator." he says, replacing the tarpaulin over the top of the cart.

A minute later, there's a phone call directly to the head office of the Continental. From a pay phone. One on the Assassin's network. Winston picks it up.

"Hello?"

"Winston." John Wick's voice says, coolly.

“Jonathan. There is no need to do something like this. We can negotiate. Don't you want to return to the Continental? I would welcome you with open arms. The High Table has given me power here. I can make it happen.” 

“Treat me like a dog, and I shall bite like one.” John says coldly.

“Treat me like a weapon, and I shall act as one.” John says angrily.

“Treat me monstrously, and you will become a monster.” John says, a hollow note to his voice sending shivers down Winston's spine.

“Jonathan, I had to work within the rules. You saw what happened when I tried to bend them for you. The rules laid by the High Table are what separates us from the animals, and what separates the living and the dead.”

“And the exceptions to those rules are what separates us from monsters.”

"Jonathan - "

“You always said that I am the man you send to kill the Baba Yaga. That I am the monster hunter.”

“You hunt The High Table.” Winston pleads.

“And their tools.”

“Is that all I am to you Jonathan? A tool of the High Table?” Winston asks.

“By your own actions.” John Wick says with conviction.

“So my argument for your continued humanity has come to haunt me.” Winston says, rather hollowly.

“Only because /your humanity did not continue.” John says, and hanging up the phone, shoots the security cameras overlooking the phone booth with his repeating sling-shot/crossbow.

Winston puts down the phone. Charon hands him a towel to help clean up some of the muck.

"So it is to be David and Goliath." Winston says, sipping an excellent whiskey.

"The moral of which is to never underestimate the little guy who is holding the sling." Charon replies, in a disquieting manner.

Winston looks at him sourly.


	3. Unusual Torture

It has been a torturous root through unknown places. All with the lingering smell of the stink bombs polluting every breath.

Hands and feet still bound in metal cuffs, the Adjudicator is dumped from the person's shoulders into a standing position, and then forced into a seat.

The dirty mask is removed from the Adjudicator's eyes. They're seated in a closed room. Before them stands the Bowery King, and two of his bedraggled minions. The Adjudicator stares up at him from the chair they're chained to. The gag is then also removed, by the Bowery King himself.

“Welcome to the Bowery Adjudicator. We hope you enjoy your stay.”

“Your capture of me to use as a bargaining chip will be to no avail.”

“Oh, I'm well aware that the High Table places no value on your life.”

One of the minions brings forward a paper bag full of take-away Chinese food. The other brings a flimsy plastic cup full of what appears to be cheap wine. 

“Apologies, your food and drink would be served more... salubriously, but humanity has always been resourceful when cornered.”

“You're not going to call me a cornered rat?” 

“Oh no. You see, that is where the Bowery has always differed from the High Table. We have always recognised the humanity of people that others have discarded. The injured, the abandoned, the homeless. Human dignity has always been our most valued resource, as it were.”

“To put it succinctly. Dehumanising you is not my style. And I do so like to be stylish.”

“Then what is my torture to be? If it's not trading me that's my value to you, then it must be my knowledge of the High Table's inner workings. How do you intend to try to wrest it from me.”

“Now, you have hit upon the most interesting thing. We are both aware that most people will say almost anything to make pain stop, if the pain is bad enough. But when you'll say anything, there's no sorting lie from truth.” 

“No. Instead, you will be treated with humanity, and respect. You will eat and drink as well as any of us in the Bowery.” 

“With one exception. As an Adjudicator I gather you are accustomed to having your full faculties at razor sharpness in order to deliver the judgements of the High Table.”

“This is your meat, and this is your wine. This is aaaall you have to drink.”

“We have been careful. This is not strong enough to injure you in any way, oh no.. not unless you are trapped here five years... in which case you may want to be gentle with your liver. But it is just strong enough to take the edge off your perception.”

“Your torture, as it were, is to relax. Your bed will be soft, your food tasty. Your books plentiful, and aaall trashy poolside-reading paperbacks.”

“How is this torture?” The Adjudicator arches a scornful eyebrow.

“Put it this way. Who or what are you, if you are no longer an Adjudicator?”

“I will always be an Adjudicator of the High Table. Your pathetic attempts to break me will be to no avail.”

The Bowery King takes a deep breath. “Your name was Alex? Wasn't it?”

The Adjudicator remains silent.

“Interesting name. The full name Alexander means protector of men. Sooo.. Alex carries simply the meaning of protector. How long, has it been... since you protected anything but the Rules of the High Table?”

“Not a fellow human, not an animal, not a friend... not even yourself. How long has it been, since you truly lived up to the name Alex?”

The Bowery King listens, taking note of the nature of the silence.

“What do you think our strategy is, by treating you well?”

“You are trying to induce Stockholm Syndrome.”

“Correct. By appealing to your humanity, we hope to make you sympathetic to our cause. If you are sympathetic to our cause, you will have the option to aide us, if you so choose.”

“But not the choice to leave.”

“Not that. You must know by now, that unlike the High Table, we recognise your value to them. We have no choice but to deprive you of your freedom, in order to deprive them of a... talented individual.”

“I still don't understand how the equation of risk versus reward will work for you keeping me detained like this?”

“True. There is every chance that we'll be discovered, that you'll be rescued or escape. But of course, will the High Table ever trust you again, given that you, by your nature, will honestly tell them of our attempts to convert you, and the techniques we used to achieve that conversion?”

“Something to think on, Alex. Enjoy your meal. I'll let you settle in, I'm sure it's been an exhausting day.” 

The Bowery King hands the Adjudicator a plastic fork and leaves.

Once the door has closed, the thud of bolts ramming home fills the air. Then the room slams into utterly silent darkness for a long moment. No indication of night or day, of direction or elevation. This is a room adrift in time and space. Once that knowledge has had time to sink in, the lights come back up, this time they are a dimmer golden hue. Soothing orchestral music begins to play. 

The table is set. The Chinese food smells good, and the somewhat watered wine matches it well.

The usual way to beat torture is to relax and conserve your resources. To maintain the sense of humanity that your captor is trying to take from you. To observe and learn. To watch and wait for your chance, and to exploit their weakness. 

What does one do when the torture itself is to relax? When their goal is for you to observe their humanity in detail?

Bon appetit, Adjudicator.


	4. Queer fiction

The door clunks. The portal swings open.

“Good Evening Alex.” Says the Bowery King.

The Adjudicator sighs their annoyance.

“Dinner is served. I hope you don't mind, it's all vegetarian. I thought you'd feel more comfortable consuming what I gave you if we shared, and I don't eat meat.” 

“Ethical concerns, you?”

He shakes his head. “Health, mostly. I know how the sausage is made.” The Bowery King's expression quirks with amusement at his own joke. He shares out the flimsy plastic cutlery between them.

“Perhaps I am being too over the top in my precautions against violence on your part. But you see, I am acquainted with John Wick.”

“I understand. ” Alex says, slyly asking. “And how is John Wick?”

“In constant pain. Both mentally and physically. Which simply ensures that he channels every ounce of his focus into revenge. This should be no surprise. More fool the High Table for leaving him alive. And me, for that matter.” 

The Adjudicator has no answer for this.

“How was your day?” He asks. 

“I have finished the books.” They say.

“How were they?” The Bowery King asks, picking them up and tucking them into his coat pockets.

They sigh. “Trashy romance novels. Your plan to bore me is working. They were very predictable. Very... heteronormative.”

“I have the latest Anna Zabo and Kris Ripper. If you're interested.” The Bowery King says, teasing some excellent queer fiction.

The Adjudicators eyes narrow. “What do I have to do for it?”

“Nothing. But please treat the books well. We have others who want to read them after you.”

The Adjudicator blinks. They're used to being the only one like they are. The world spins like a heteronormative top around them, never stopping to make space for anyone else.

The Bowery King takes the two books from his coat, and lays them on the table, along with a bookmark. 

“Now I feel like I shouldn't accept.” Alex says honestly. 

“Do or don't. Your prerogative.” 

“Anything you want for dessert tomorrow?” the Bowery King asks.

“Bagels and lox.” Alex says sarcastically.

“Aaah.” The Bowery smiles. “From that one place we both know.” They both know Alex is asking for the house speciality of a particular High Table front business from outside the Bowery area of control. “I don't have the ego you might expect I have. Not any more. I've been cut down to size, as it were.”

He spreads his arms wide. In fact, he's still wearing the mended clothes he was cut down in, two years ago. They both stare at one another, letting all of that sink in. He breaks the moment first.

“Do you actually want bagels and lox? I know another place.” He asks lightly.

“No... Yes.” Alex says. Then glares at the Bowery King. They both know he's gotten under their skin, but he doesn't gloat. 

“See you tomorrow. Enjoy the books.” He says, with apparent sincerity.

The door clunks closed behind him with finality. Alex glares at it for some time, then angrily picks up the book and begins to read.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so I had the idea that since the Bowery has been removed from the world of Assassins, they are unlikely to have access to kickass weapons and unlimited ammo. But they might have access to chop shops. And in that case, they have access to improvised weapons. Sling shots, crossbows, etc. the series is known for being fu-crazy. No one has killed anyone with a bow, crossbows, pit trap or other interesting improvised projectile weapon to my knowledge. So... I want to see John and the Bowery King take down the Continental with those. Crossbow versus gun. Because... who doesn’t want to see the Continental ripped to shreds with a barrage of ballistae driven in shopping carts.


End file.
